


The Survivor

by MelanieQuinlan



Category: Pet Shop Boys
Genre: Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29877936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieQuinlan/pseuds/MelanieQuinlan
Summary: Neil is in a bad way after his ex-boyfriend committed suicide. One night he meets a young man in a club who saves him from making a fatal mistake.
Relationships: Neil Tennant/ original male character
Kudos: 2





	The Survivor

Neil awoke with a feeling of terror and despair. With his eyes wide open he stared into the twilight of an early September morning. His breaths came much too quick because he was still terrified, and he felt his hands trembling. In fact, his whole body was shaking and only partly because a cold breeze came floating through the half-closed window.

He swallowed hard, drew a deep breath, and commanded himself to lay back and relax. A goal he didn’t quite reach while he lay there in the semi-darkness, listening to his own heartbeat. At last, the acute impression of terror left him but only to be replaced by that sheer over-powering feeling of loneliness that had become as familiar to him as his own shadow in recent months. He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself out of pure reflex. The coldness touching his skin didn’t really matter to him. The more frightening and by far more dangerous coldness was inside of him, froze his heart and soul and paralysed his mind. Nothing seemed to ease it and he knew there was no escape either.

Only now did he realise that he was completely undressed and not alone, too. He could feel the warmth of a body very close next to him and when he listened hard enough, he could hear the soft, steady breaths of someone blessed with a deep and untroubled sleep. He glanced at the presumably also naked young man for an awfully long moment. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar and for a fleeting instant the sight of the boy who slept so peacefully next to him even touched him. Then, in addition to his utter surprise he felt the shock. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes in disbelieve. What in heaven’s name had he thought he had been doing? How had he been able to kiss and caress this boy when the only one he really wanted, the only one he loved was dead? How drunk had he been last night? How depressed? How careless?

All of a sudden, he felt dizzy and his eyes started to burn with the bitter tears of shame, guilt and regret. Something like that had never been meant to happen but now that it had he felt both worthless and sorry. Sorry for that young man because he had used him in his own desperate manner, because his passion was really reserved for someone else.

He turned carefully in order not to wake the boy, whose name he now recalled way Dean. Burying his face in the pillows he cried silently without being able to control himself. The coldness inside of him seemed to expand, to consume all other emotions apart from the burning loneliness, the regret and the self-accusations. Next to him Dean turned in his sleep and by chance the boy’s hand came resting on his back. The soft, unintended touch woke a sharp pain within him, a hopeless yearning deep inside. A longing for another boy’s touch so strong he feared he was finally going to lose his mind. Gradually this feeling subsided and he found the faint touch to be somehow comforting and reassuring. Then his irritation was gone and the memories of last night came rushing back into his mind.

◊◊◊◊

He had tried to forget the fact that Tom was dead as if this was possible at all. A little wicked voice at the back of his mind kept whispering those words – “He’s dead. You know that he’s dead.” – no matter what he did or where he was. It even haunted his sleep and prevented him from regaining his peace of mind. Nevertheless, had he tried to escape it, to silence it with far too many drinks, with the music and smoke of some obscure gay club somewhere in the heart of London. Naturally, it hadn’t worked.

The drinks and the heat had only made him dizzy and the sight of all these young men dancing happily together only added to his feeling of desperation and anger. He had stayed there for a long-time despite of all this. He had been far too scared to face the icy silence that welcomed him in his deserted flat. When he had finally left, he had had a desperate plan in mind. He would go down to the Serpentine to find someone who was as lost as he felt, someone who, in the end, would take him a step closer to Tom. He stood in the heavy rain only a few steps away from the club’s entrance, his gaze fixed on the pale silvery moon above him. He hadn’t cried then because he found some hope in his strange plan.

“You won’t be alone for much longer, Tom,” he had whispered in an eerily soft voice. “Maybe tonight I will receive my own death-sentence. My justification to follow you on your last journey, I can’t live like that, I miss you so much. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Are you talking to me?” A voice behind him suddenly asked.

Neil spun around, only the slightest bit frightened and found himself facing a boy in his mid-twenties, who stood a few steps in the distance. He was quite tall and remarkable slender with curly dark hair and dark skin. He was dressed plainly in rather tight blue jeans, a dark blue sweater, and a white jeans jacket. He faced Neil directly, patiently waiting for a reply. He made the impression that nothing could ever disturb his tranquillity.

“No, I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to someone else. To a friend who’s already gone.”

To his surprise the boy did not laugh. Instead, he seemed to look Neil directly in the eyes, then glanced at the moon as well and nodded thoughtfully.

“I understand.”

“Oh, do you?” Neil’s voice was bitter, and the words had come out harsher than he had intended so that he tried a weak, apologetic smile.

“Yes,” the boy simply replied, his voice calm without a trace of anger. “At least enough not find your talking to the moon amusing.”

He stepped forward, holding his hand out in greeting. “My name is Dean.”

“I’m Neil,” he told the boy, shaking his hand. “In case you don’t know.”

“Oh, I do. I know you’re a pop star,” the boy replied quietly as if stating a most insignificant fast.

“Oh well, so in case you don’t want an autograph, I better go now. It’s a long way to the Serpentine and I’m searching for someone,” Neil answered slowly.

“I’m coming with you. I have to go in that direction anyway.”

Neil just looked at Dean for a moment as if wanting to ask why. Then he shrugged his shoulders and started to walk down the street.

“It doesn’t make any difference” was all he said.

He kept on walking, his pace fast, careless whether Dean followed him. He glanced around, seemingly nervous, his eyes watchful, in search of something. Every now and then he would take a look at the moon as if asking it for guidance.

None of the two men spoke a word although Dean had briefly wondered about how to start a conversation. There was something in Neil’s way of acting, in his strange determination that had stopped him though. So, he walked next to Neil in silence, keeping up with the older man’s pace easily. At least he didn’t feel the cold so much when he walked as fast as he did. London seemed to be always cold, cloudy and miserable, he thought. Its sky way always grey, so completely different from the Caribbean sky he used to know so well. Now he was shivering and soaking wet as well. The rain continued to fall heavily in thick drops and somehow it seemed appropriated that the English would describe such weather by saying that it rained cats and dogs. A chilly north-easterly wind blew furiously through the streets, sending empty cans and bottles rolling down the gutter and old newspapers dancing in the air.

Hiding his almost numb hands in the pockets of his jeans jacket, he watched Neil, frowning disapprovingly at the fact that he hadn’t even bothered to close his coat. Well, it was more than obvious that Neil did not give a damn about getting wet, freezing or catching a cold, judging from the way he had exposed himself to the pouring rain earlier. Dean knew instinctively that something was wrong with this man. Very wrong indeed. Strangely enough though that knowledge didn’t scare him. He was only concerned about Neil and he wanted to help him. He wondered why Neil’s face remained so completely expressionless, what he tried so hard to hind behind that mask. Why was his behaviour so odd? Why was he talking to the moon or rather to himself? And most of all, what had caused the limitless sadness he could detect so easily in Neil’s eyes?

They had walked for almost three quarters of an hour when Dean suddenly stopped. Neil however continued to head down the narrow road, whether he hadn’t noticed the boy’s stop or whether he just didn’t care Dean couldn’t tell. Whatever the case might have been, Neil walked right past Dean without a look or a word of goodbye. For an instant all Dean could do was watch him, stunned as he was by that display of thoughtlessness. But then he acted quickly. He stepped forward and grabbed Neil by the arm. The young man’s grip was firm as he had the impression that it would require a certain amount of harshness to make Neil stop. And indeed, Neil did stop, his body stiffened slightly before he turned around ever so slowly to face the boy. Dean half expected him to be annoyed or even angry. It wouldn’t have surprised him to have Neil shout at him, but the older man just stood there in front of him, almost motionless, glancing at him.

“So what?” Neil asked finally, his voice tired and somehow distant.

Dean had to swallow before he was able to answer. He couldn’t stand that man’s look that was so full of hurt, couldn’t stand the way he stood there, looking so lonely and lost.

“I live somewhere nearby,” he explained, hoping to sound rather casual. “In fact my flat is only two side-streets away.”

“Well, then it seems that our paths are leading into different directions again,” Neil replied in an eerie voice, then added politely: “It was nice meeting you, Dean.”

He turned again but before he could even take a single step, Dean grabbed him again, this time by the shoulder.

“No, wait a second, please!”

“Why?” Neil demanded, his voice now clearly showing signs of impatience and anger.

Dean drew in a deep breath but continued to face Neil as he answered: “Don’t think I’m trying to chat you up, because I’m not but I just thought that you might want to come home with me. It’s such a dreadful night, it’s raining, and I can see how you are shaking. Come on, do you really think you’ll find anyone down at the Serpentine now?”  
He saw Neil’s features soften briefly as the traces of barely concealed anger vanished and the dull mask of self-control returned. Nothing happened for a long moment. The two men stood there, silently facing each other, both waiting. The only sound was the frightful scream of the wind and the monotone rhythm of the rain that seemed to fill the entire world in those passing seconds.

Then Neil nodded. “Alright. But be warned, I’m in a strange mood tonight.”

“I’ve noticed that before” Dean replied dryly and headed down a small pathway that hardly deserved to be called a street.

◊◊◊◊

Still laying there in the twilight Neil remembered even the tiniest detail of that weird meeting with such clarity that it almost frightened him. His tears had subsided by then and he felt strangely calm. Not that he was any less lonely or sad, but these emotions seemed to be isolated in a remote part of his personality. A part that was as detached from him as any other person might ever be. Equally detached and thus hard to understand were his deeds of last night. When he thought about them know it was really as if they had been committed by someone else, except for that lingering sensual impression that remained.

Again, he sighed and turned to face the boy. Dean still slept undisturbed and oblivious to his sorrows and regrets.

But how truly handsome this young man was, Neil thought. His full black hair fell in wave like curls on his forehead and barely touched the boy’s shoulders. His equally black eyebrows formed close to perfect curves whereas his eyelashes were thick and long as a girl’s. He had a tiny nose, and his lips were quite full and sensual. And his body – oh, yes, Deans warm and slender body. Just the thought of it sent a shiver down Neil’s spine and he felt the strangest mixture of longing and guilt. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to last night.

◊◊◊◊

Dean had guided him down that narrow and grey cobble-stoned pathway that had led to an aged, sleazy building. Its façade looked as if the paint was decades if not centuries old; it was fading, cracked and in some spots peeled off completely. Once it surely had been a glorious place, with its high ceilings, the enormous staircase and all of those strange little statues which loomed in the shadows. The faint illumination of a single naked bulb only deepened them; send them dancing back and forth on the walls, in the far corners and on the wet pavement. Neil remembered how in that moment he had had the impression that everything, the entire scenery was unreal, merely an illusion but of course it had been all quite real.

Dean had thumbed with the key but had finally managed to open the door. Four floors above another door had been unlocked and Neil had followed Dean into his flat. He recalled how he had welcomed the warmth that had wrapped itself around him as soon as he had stepped into the living-room. Until then he hadn’t realised that he was indeed frozen to the bone and trembling all over. He had dropped his wet coat carelessly on to a chair before settling down on an old but comfortable sofa. He had glanced around briefly and had found himself to be mildly surprised.

From within the flat betrayed no sign that it was situated in a grey industrial area not far away from Paddington Goods Station. Everything in the small flat seemed neat and cosy. Two huge windows faced the street, both of them covered now by indigo blue cotton curtains. A simple desk stood between them, filled with piles of books, tapes and endless sheets of music. Opposite it stood the sofa on which Neil sat, together with a small table, an easy chair and a tiny television set, which had been placed on a stack of old books. Shelves filled with books and videotapes stood all along the walls. The walls itself had been painted in a bright shade of orange red whereas the fitted carpet was silvery grey. Lots of green plants such as fern and indoor palm trees gave the room a lived, almost exotic atmosphere. The framed black and white photographs which occupied most of the space left on the walls showed mostly young men.

Dean had offered Neil a drink which he had gratefully accepted. Then the young man had left him alone. He had said he was going to take a shower and change clothes. So, Neil had sat there, listening to the endless drumming of the rain. He had emptied his drink of cheap gin with a single gulp. He would have fallen asleep had Dean not returned with two cups of hot tea. The boy had settled down in the easy chair with his legs crossed like some Buddhist monk, looking undeniably cute in his white fluffy dressing gown. He had persuaded Neil to take a shower as well because – as he has put it – he didn’t want to be responsible for the cold the older man might catch.

The hot water on his skin and the steam added to his feeling of surrealism. He had remembered his desperate plan that should have led to the Serpentine and the promise he had given Thomas. There had been that burning desire again that confused him ad threatened to consume him.

“Maybe I will indeed follow you,” he whispered and chuckled humourlessly as he stepped out of the shower.

◊◊◊◊

Then his memory became blurred. He remembered himself in a drunken embrace with Dean, trying to seduce the youngster. At first the boy had been reluctant and had quite fiercely tried to escape him but then, gradually his resistance had subsided. After the passive resignation with which he had endured Neil’s kisses, he had even responded with a feverish eagerness and passion. Dean’s warm firm embrace had been quite lovely.

Neil remembered that special smell of his hair – a mixture of a rich and musky perfume, of smoke and sweat - remembered how good it had felt to kiss and be kissed. Hands all over his body, soothing, exploring. Thrilling. Reality and fantasy soon had become one and it had no longer been Dean whom he caressed; it had been Tom. Tom, his beloved and much missed and desired lost boy. How sweet to make love to him again. How sweet to share ecstasy with him one last time. With that thought on his mind he had fallen asleep last night and did so again while outside the sun was rising in a dull grey sky.

◊◊◊◊

His dreams of both Tom and Dean were disturbing and unsettling. The images of the two boys faded and became as blurred as his memory so that he could never be sure whom he was kissing. It was like and endless, cruel game of hide-and-seek and whenever he was convinced it was Tom whom he held in his arms, it turned out to be Dean who laughed at his stupidity. Tom was laughing at him as well, the sound of it echoed cold and merciless through Neil’s mind. He then turned and walked away from him, right into a tunnel which seemed to be the very embodiment of darkness. After the longest time the boy disappeared completely, and Neil was left on his own.

He screamed in his dream, but he didn’t wake up. There was nothing in this dark, cold place he was trapped in. Soon he was trembling violently again for he was naked and there was nowhere where he could seek shelter. He couldn’t see or hear a thing and apart form his fear there was no company for him. He started to cry out of frustration and the doomed knowledge that Tom was forever gone returned. After a seemingly endless time the darkness that had surrounded him, finally began to brighten. Slowly it turned into an eerie fog like something, then was gone.

Neil’s bad dream vanished along with that. But everything was still so vague, his memories, he couldn’t really focus on where he was or what had happened since he had gone to that club. His mind was turning endlessly and was unable to get hold of a single thought. He felt so wrecked, powerless, and stripped of his pride. His eyes were burning, his head ached, and his face was wet with tears again.

Someone shook him gently, obviously trying to wake him. He felt the touch of fingers striking his hair back, moving half carefully, half tenderly over his temples and neck. He appreciated this offer of comfort and relaxed a little, feeling his restless thoughts calming down. But before he could even find a little forgetting, the full memory struck him like an unexpected flash of lightning.

That horrible phone call. The message saying Tom was dead. All of those long, lonely months without him. His grief. The guilt, the never-ending self-accusations. The loneliness he couldn’t escape. The dark, paralysing desperation that haunted him. His wish to quit it all, to follow Tom. Him contemplating suicide. That close to insane plan of his. The thought of the Serpentine, of some wasted guy who would serve as his ticket to eternity. Then that boy, Dean…

He stared up, confused, ashamed and looked directly into Deans dark eyes. They studied him silently and like on his calm face Neil failed to find any trace of anger or disappointment in them. There was only a strange blend of compassion, understanding and sadness, together with something else; something Neil didn’t dare to figure out. Neil sat up, facing the boy for a long moment, desperately searching for words. What could he say if everything would sound either stupid or trivial? What words could he use when they all seemed inadequate to express his feelings or to describe that crazy situation he was suddenly in?

Dean remained silent, too, and kept looking at him with those sympathetic hazel eyes, smiling faintly at him. Suddenly he reached out with one hand, brushing away tears Neil hadn’t even noticed were running down his face. It was as if Dean’s touch had triggered some kind of hidden reaction that caused his mask of self-control to drop completely. Neil almost collapsed into the boy’s arms, hugging him desperately. He held on to Dean so firmly as if the boy were the only guarantee to his survival. For a split-second Dean was taken by surprise but held Neil tight anyway. He held him gently, like someone might hold a crying child, absent-mindedly running his fingers through Neil’s hair once more. Neil however had buried his face at the boy’s shoulder and was truly grateful not to be alone at the moment.

He felt he could no longer stand the coldness within him that isolated him from everything around him, that kept him like inside of a bubble through which he could see everything but could not participate in it. He craved any kind of company so badly that it even didn’t matter anymore that he had most likely made a complete fool out of himself last night or that he should have never woken up next to a stranger like this. To feel the warmth and strength of Dean’s slender body felt sweet and yet all the possible sensual or even sexual connotations of this physical closeness didn’t matter at all. There was no way of telling for how long he had remained like that, drifting with his thoughts , which were still turning in hopeless circles. Sometime later he freed himself of Dean’s gentle embrace and let go of the boy.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he mumbled, not daring to look the young man directly in the eyes.  
“I guessed you were,” came the surprising reply. “Just tell me why exactly.”

“I…,” Neil began, his voice trembling. He bid his lower lip nervously, then tried again. “I don’t know how. And if I knew how, I possibly wouldn’t dare.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully once more. Then he got up from the bed and smiled down at Neil.

“Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed? Breakfast is ready.”

Some 20 minutes later Neil sat opposite Dean on a small table, which occupied most of the space of the kitchen. Neil was sipping his coffee, staring out of the window into the grey rain clouds. When Dean had finished his toasts, he leaned back in his chair and faced Neil directly once more. After a little while he asked: “Who was Tom?”

Neil almost spilled his coffee. He still wasn’t prepared to hear Tom’s name so casually mentioned.

“Why do you want to know?” he snapped, feeling angry with himself that he had come here at all.

“Well, you called his name tonight. In fact, you called me by this name while we were … intimate. I would just like to know why he was so important that you suffer so greatly over him.”

Neil was speechless again. His anger was forgotten. This boy was truly amazing. Most other youngsters would have been jealous or angry. And it would have been their good right. It wasn’t nice to be called by the name of your partner’s ex-lover. He sighed and bowed his head. Dean deserved an explanation, alright. Just where should he start?

“Tom was my boyfriend,” he said. ”Now he’s dead.”

Dean watched him and nodded again. As he didn’t reply, Neil went on: “He has been dead for about three months now. It’s still …it’s still so bad. It hurts like hell. We have been together for three years before he quit. Then we didn’t see each other for a while. A couple of months, maybe half a year. Then he was back. We were just making up when he found out… His doctor told him that he was positive.”

He had to swallow hard to be able to go on talking. “He didn’t tell me, I hadn’t any time for him then, I was busy, we were recording. It all seems so useless now. The next thing I knew was this damned phone-call. A friend of his had found him in his flat. Dead. He had shot himself.”

The silence between then seemed to stretch endlessly. Finally, Dean spoke again: “I’m sorry for you. And now you want to kill yourself as well? With too many drinks and boys you wanna meet at the Serpentine? Does that make sense?”

Neil simply shrugged his shoulders. “I’m beyond caring what makes sense,” he said. “I miss him like hell. And his death doesn’t make sense anyway because had he waited for the result of the second test, he would have learned that he wasn’t positive. He killed himself in vain. And I was too busy to help him.”

“But do you think that the waste of one life will be made any less terrible by the waste of another?” Dean asked and Neil could do nothing but to stare at him in silence.

◊◊◊◊

Some months had passed and again Neil was hurrying through the rain. He had just passed Brompton Cemetery and was now heading down Fulham Broadway, cursing the fact that he had forgotten to take an umbrella along. And like always in those situations, he hadn’t been able to get cab on Sloane Square where he had been shopping. The rain was pouring down heavily now, blinding his sight at times because the drops were running down his face and messing with his contact lenses. He had to blink constantly to see a damn thing. His coat was soaked through and he shivered in the cold autumn wind.

He should better hurry now if he didn’t want to catch a bad cold. This time there would be nobody to prepare some hot tea for him. He stopped dead in his track for a second, remembering that awful night he had run into Dean. He smiled, thinking back at their encounter. How calm the boy had been, so serious with those big, warm brown eyes and that careful smile. How beautiful with that café au lait skin and the lean, trained body.

Neil felt himself blush at this though and hurried on. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of the boy naked next to him in the messed-up bed. Hell, he was allowed to enjoy himself a little every now and then, was he? After all the last months had been hell and he had been missing Tom for so long. It was hard to believe that almost a full year had passed since his boy’s death and finally he felt like waking up from some horrible nightmare.

Dean had been his saviour, he mused. Had he not met that boy he would have made some bad mistake; he was convinced he would have. Neil sighed and suddenly decided that he would call the boy. He still had his number, written down on a crumbled piece of paper somewhere stuffed into his notebook.

Maybe he would dare tonight or tomorrow to pick up the phone and dial that number, to hear Dean’s soft voice and to apologise. Maybe they could talk over dinner or a cup of tea. Maybe he could accept that his life wasn’t over even though Tom’s was. He turned one last corner on the way to his flat and laughed softly, his face turned up to the grey clouds, braving the rain. Somehow, he felt very much alive being walking in the rain today.


End file.
